Chained Down By Your Existence
by elude
Summary: AU Mental Asylum/ Vampires After a tragic event, Bella is forced to repair the inner workings of her mind and with that, recover her memory and find herself. JxB


AN: I was planning to write something merrier, but this depression hit me -_-. I hope there's not too much angst. I tried to avoid that. For those waiting for the second chapter of Ripples, I apologize, but that might take a while. I'm having a sort of writer's block with that. (That's a reason why I try to keep my stories short. Because I can never concentrate on a long story.)

Music Choice: Pale (Within Temptation)

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.

Summary: (AU Mental Asylum/ Vampires) After a tragic event, Bella is forced to repair the workings of her mind and with that, recover her memory. JxB

* * *

**Chained Down By Your Existence**

Existence is such a vague word. If I scratch at its surface, will I be able to find its meaning? If I poke at it, will I find the definition hidden within its core? What _does_ it mean to exist? Does it mean living happily, with a smile plastered on your face, where you can grin and laugh in all situations because you know there's a happy ending waiting for you at the end of it all? Does it mean existing with the knowledge that everyone that surrounds you deeply cares about you and would willing sacrifice their lives in order to save yours? Or does it also apply to my life, where black only meets with a darker gloominess, where the light of the sun never shines past the outside walls? So, when you open your eyes, you only see the bleak darkness grinning in your wake? Does it mean to possess the knowledge that you have nobody left, and the only possessions that truly belong to you are the clothes on your back and nothing more?

"What is a mental asylum?" And when the question flies from my mouth, the sound echoes across the walls for a long time before finally quieting down because nothing ever gets out here. Everything is as much trapped to this location as the building itself.

"The place where you're at," answers the same voice that I have grown accustomed to hear nowadays. There is nothing to indicate the malice embedded in the tone of the voice, but there is nothing to indicate the sweetness either. I turn my head towards the source of the voice. There is nothing but air and the dust surrounding the room. It's sometimes like this. Sometimes I see the person who talks; sometimes I don't. The young man with the clipboard and white cloak says that it's a figment of my imagination.

I don't think so. Voices can't be created out of thing air; people certainly can't. But I don't tell him that, because he wouldn't have understood anyways.

"Voice, where are you?" The echo doesn't quite bounce as much as my first question. The voice answers almost as soon as the first wave of my voice spreads across the small room.

"I told you, I'm Jasper." And right away, as if that had been the magic needed for the spell to be complete, the voice, or Jasper, appears. He is leaning against the white marble wall of the closed room, with his arms neatly tucked behind his back. His eyes look at me and there is a softening tone about his glance. I never fail to look back, not if I don't want to miss the hazel in his eyes, so akin to the sunlight from the outside.

I notice that his voice sounds Southern, and if he was a Southern, that this might be the South. But according to the young man with the white cloak, if my logic had been right in the first place, I would never have been here.

"Jasper," I repeat and I breathe the name, trying to bring life into it. Then my face lifts into a smile, and I'm not sure if it's because of the sudden burst of happiness or if it's my sanity peeling away. "What are you doing here?"

He crosses his arm over his russet jacket, never moving away from the marble wall. His eyes are still on me, but the softened gaze has turned to something of a disappointed one. "Shouldn't I be asking you?" The Southern accent shines and this time, I am sure he is from the South.

Though there is no reason for me to agree to his words, I nod my head anyways, "I suppose." The words slip out of my mouth so fast that there is not enough time to retract them—I do wonder their meaning, but before I can do so, someone is knocking against the wooden door.

"Isabella Swan," says the new voice.

"Bella," I say back automatically, though my voice is much too soft to be heard. The door opens with a soft click, the light rushing into the darkness of the room. The door slams shut, and the light disappears as if it had never existed in the first place. Jasper, or the voice, is gone as well, no longer standing by the left wall.

"Isabella," the voice mutters, but for some strange reason, my body doesn't respond and I continue to gaze at where the other voice once stood. _Jasper_, my mind thinks, but he doesn't come back. I desperately want to see him again, so much that I can feel my heart leaping out through my throat.

"Still unresponsive, are you?" said the new voice with such tremendous sadness that it breaks me from my stupor. _I want to answer you. I really do, but the darkness continues to chain me down, and that includes my power of speech. I can barely open my mouth, and even breathing seems to be harder when you are near._

"I guess…" the voice chokes, "I guess you have to stay here. I'm sorry." The pen scratches on the paper, a violent little sound. The light doesn't flow in this time, but the door does open, only to close a few seconds later. And I'm left alone in the darkness, not without hearing the words "Bella, sorry" from the person's voice.

Well, I suppose I should say "sorry" back to that person. Wasn't it common courtesy?

"No, that would be 'thank you', Bella," says the voice who insists his name be "Jasper".

"Thank you," I repeat, and the word sounds so sweet coming from my lips. A wave of glee enters my lungs, and it's contagious, because when I look at Jasper, he's grinning back at me. I finally notice that his hair is a golden hue, which definitely contrasts with the paleness of his skin. I peer closely at his skin and I am able to see all the little scars across it. Images flash. I vaguely remember there was a reason for his hazel eyes and his pale skin. I don't think he was born with hazel eyes, but I can't really remember—it's stuck in the crevasses of my mind, lost.

"You're welcome, but I didn't do it because I wanted you to feel indebted," he says, and I can't quite understand why he says that. Maybe it was because of my "thank you" but something in me tells me that it was from before, long ago, but I just couldn't remember the event.

I wish I did though, so _so_ much.

Then, I ask another question. "Who are you, Jasper?"

"You want to know?" his voice is deep.

I nod my head.

"Shouldn't you, out of everybody, know that answer?" he asked, and it makes me ashamed. "What happened, Bella?"

And all of a sudden, my body is somebody else's. The other me begins to talk. "You disappeared; you don't exist anymore."

"I'm right here," he insists.

"Illusions and dreams aren't real."

"Then, am I real?" he asks.

_She_ answers truthfully, "I don't know."

He chuckles and a string of golden light streams out, "You always liked to say that."

"So, are you real?"

He chuckles again, but this time there is no amusement, only the sound of a businessman speaking to his customer. The voice is soft, helpful, but the underlying sincerity is gone. Businessman-like. "That's for you to decide. I don't make the rules in this world. _You_ do."

And just like that, he disappears. "Decide for yourself." His voice resonates loudly, but when I turn to the source, I don't see the person. _There was nothing, but air. It's sometimes like this. Sometimes I see the person who talks; sometimes I don't. The man with the clipboard and white cloak says that it's a figment of my imagination._

"Voice, where are you?" And this time, it's _me _that's speaking, not the other me, but there is no answer. A wretched sob sounds in the room and for an instant I think it is somebody else. But as it stands, foreign sounds never enter the room.

&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&

"Why do you make it so hard for yourself, Isabella?" The person with the clipboard talks again, in that gloomy tone of his. I stare at the uppermost corner of my white pillow, which is resting on the white bed sheets, which are covering the white bed.

So white.

A hand falls on my shoulder, the thin fingers curving around the shape of my shoulder. The touch is so warm, so different from the atmosphere of this place—I start to think that this person might be real after all. But I hesitate—no use in getting my hopes up.

"Isabella, talk to me, please," he says.

I can't quite answer, because the chains that bind me drag my power of speech away—I can't move away from the chains. _Sorry. And idiot, my name's Bella. Don't you remember?_

"Isabella, it's been a few months already. You have to start talking to someone. Anyone," he continues on. I start to feel sorry for this stranger, but the binds on me start to tighten, and all of a sudden, I just want him to get out of the room. I shake off his hand on my shoulder, because it feels like a hole is being burnt through my flesh.

"Bella—alright I'll leave. Just don't hurt yourself, promise me that?"

My head tips forward and back. A sigh escapes from the young man's lips. The door slams shut, and the light escapes from my view once more.

&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&

"He was only trying to help you," says Jasper, in that all-knowing voice of his. There is that Southern accent that I want to ask him about. But I remain quiet, because that would be going off-topic.

"I don't need help," says the other in me. She is strong where I am weak. She is able to answer the questions that this voice throws out at me with her own vigor. I want to ask her to answer the questions that the man with the clipboard asks. But, can I really ask my other me, when in the end, she is me?

"You're in an asylum," he points out, as if it were as simple as saying the sky was blue.

"You too," she notes. I can't sense a purpose in her words.

He mutters a soft reply in response, so quiet that my ears could not hear the reply. And so, the other me does not answer. Because, I don't think she heard too.

"Why do you come here?" And this time, it is me that asks Jasper the question. My gaze is towards him once more, concentrating on the brightness of his light-russet eyes. But then his body relaxes and he leans against the wall once more, with his hands by his side. I can't see his eyes anymore because his head is slightly tilted, as if to create an impression of serenity. I instead notice the white jacket he wears, and it scared me, because it is so much like the room.

"Am I really here, Bella?"

"I don't know." It is the only answer my muddled brain can conjure up in a place like this.

"Think, Bella, you have to remember yourself," he says.

_Like I know what that means_, I thought. Instead of speaking, I choose to stand up from my spot on the bed. Slowly, I slip my legs off the sheets and land them on the floor. My legs are like jelly and at this first new venture I stumble and fall on my knees. My hands move to my knees. _It is painful._ Jasper looks at me with depressing eyes, but he does not come forward. The ends of his fingers twitch though, just a bit. He opens his mouth to speak, but in the end, silence covers the room with its thick blanket.

It is with great effort that I stand on my legs once more. Beads of sweat roll down my cheek, falling down to my chin. They drip on the ground, _drip, drip, and drip._ I continue my way. How long has it been since I last walked? My feet inch towards his side and my heart trembles. Something tells me that I have been waiting for this moment a long time ago. I look up and he is looking at me intently, but when I stare closer, I notice that his eyes are no longer their light tint. No matter, I tell myself and raise my hand. I want to touch him, to see if he was real like that man with the clipboard. But when I reach out for him, the knocks on the door sound and Jasper is vanishes. Like thin air.

The door clicks and in a flurry of actions, he grabs my wrist and pulls me to the bed.

"Isabella, are you okay? You were out of your bed. You've never done that before. Tell me if you want to attempt something like that. Don't do this alone."

My lips part slightly; the air escapes through and enters.

"Are you okay, Isabella? Do you need anything?"

I want to learn more about him, Jasper. I want to know how he can smile so happily _and _be able to look at me with such sadden eyes. And it is with those thoughts that the chains became broken.

"No." When I speak, the sound is harsh and with discord. It sounds as if I haven't used my voice in years.

"Isabella, you're finally speaking," says he. When I look up, I see the happiness that had flashed on Jasper's face not too long ago.

But I have been speaking for a long time, I think. There's nothing special about that. The man continues to talk now, in different colored tones. But I remain silent. I want to say I feel apologetic, but I don't—not really. Let him talk all he wants. He is being a nuisance. I don't want anyone besides Jasper to talk to me, I think silently.

But I wonder if that really is true.

&^&^&^&^&^&

Time continues to pass. Days blend into other days. There are no calendars here, so time is not an apparent thing. And no one will tell me the time either, not that it matters. I'm not too sure I understand what time means anymore. And not knowing means there is one less trouble in my mind. I'm glad. I really believe that. I think.

The man with the clipboard continues to come, every so often. He comes in with his random questions of his and when he asks them, he sits on the edge of my bed, waiting for an answer. Only, I don't answer. But he sits anyways.

"Cullen," he says one day. "Do you remember that family?"

The name resonates with something in the back of my head. At that instant, I turn to meet his eyes. It is the first time I notice his looks. His eyes are golden and shining, just like Jasper's. His hair is blond, but is much lighter than Jasper's hair.

"Cullen, do you remember?" he repeats, as if I was a child who couldn't understand difficult words. Something flickers in those golden eyes of his.

"Maybe," I say, and I turn away from his gaze.

"Maybe…does that mean you remember something?" he asks.

"Maybe," I repeat again. I find it troublesome to open my mouth. He only asks annoying questions. I shouldn't have wished for the ability to be able to converse with him. I want to learn more about _him_ instead.

"Jasper?" I ask instead.

I hear a rustle of papers, "Yes. What do you remember about him?"

A wave of memories hit me in the face, of the many conversations I have heard with Jasper and the other me.

"He doesn't exist anymore and it's someone's fault?" That should have been the first time I didn't use a one-word answer with him.

And it is this time that he doesn't answer me. The pencil remains idle in his hands; he lets his legs hang above the mattress, dangling so dangerously above the carpet flooring. And in mere seconds, he stands up so fast that the scene blurs in my eyes. The door slams, and he is gone, without a goodbye.

"Shouldn't have asked him that," says a voice, and I can stake my life that the voice belongs to Jasper. And sure enough, when I turn around, he is standing against the wall, with those fair eyes gazing into my chocolate ones.

"He wanted me to talk," I argue, though it does nothing to myself feel better.

"That doesn't mean you should have said that, Bella. It's—I'm still a sensitive subject," he chides, but it sounds so gentle.

"What else do I have to talk about?" I ask.

"You have your own life, Bella. Your interests, your likes, your dislikes. Did you think about those?"

I shake my head, "Not enough time."

"You have all the time in the world, Bella," says Jasper, as if it was a matter-of-fact.

"Hmm."

We fall back into silence.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"Are we back to that again?" Jasper sounds irritated. I hear it in the pattern of his voice.

"No," I shake my head, despite how much I really want to know the answer to that question. But it seems like Jasper realizes that too, because he sighs. For a moment, it feels as if he is going to stand closer to me, but he doesn't, always standing a few feet away.

"Only you know the answer to that."

"That only means you won't tell me the answer," I say.

"Bella," he says, "Please don't start this again."

"I'm not starting anything." My arms wrap around my knees. I cuddle my head against my knees, my feet comfortably stepping on the soft mattress. "I just want to know what happened to you, what made you not exist anymore."

"You're still using that euphemism." It was a statement, and when he says it, he seems to be saying it more to himself than me. His eyes are to the ground and his body is somewhat slumped. He brings a hand to his hair and ruffles it. Then he sighs softly before a chuckle comes to his lips. "I'm so sorry, Bella."

"I'm sorry too," I say, with every intention of saying an apology.

"I need to go," he says, "But I'll be back."

"I don't believe," I whisper, though it falls to deaf ears because he is long gone before I even start my sentence.

&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&

The man with the clipboard comes again.

"My last name is Cullen," he proclaims, as if he was stating that day was day and night was night.

"Cullen," I nod, as if digesting the name. "I know."

"Yes, but can you remember anything else associating with that name?" He sounds impatient and that annoys me somehow.

"No," I say and I'm not too sure if it is the truth or words that have appeared out my mouth because of irritation.

"You remembered Jasper. You remember…his name."

"Maybe," I say, and it probably doesn't even make any sense.

"It's a definite yes, right. Please tell me that, Isabella?"

"Don't call me that," I snap back, like a crocodile when it meets its prey.

"You remember that you don't like your full name?"

I shake my head, the brownness of my hair overwhelming me for that brief instance. "Bella. Not Isabella."

"Yes," he says, and the pencil goes _scratch, scratch, scratch_.

"I'm tired."

"Oh." The pencil stops scratching. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"Can you tell me a story?"

"A story?" The clipboard falls to the bed.

I nod my head, letting my hair fall to my shoulders. "About Jasper. I want to know more about him. I know you know."

"You remember then," he says simply.

I nod my head again.

The mattress creaks under the adjustment in weight. The young man sighs. "Bella, it wasn't your fault."

He says it so single-handedly and so easily that I am forced to turn my gaze upon him once more. I see those golden eyes of Jasper's in his, like always. The hair is just a tint lighter, however, but I don't mind. It's better that way, so that I wouldn't mix the two of them up. They were relatively the same age, with Jasper being a bit older. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I've said. It wasn't your fault. Don't put the blame all on yourself. Can't you see it's killing you on the inside? Jasper's _dead_, but it's not your fault. No one wanted it to happen. No one thought that he would have tried to protect you. We thought he was aware that it was all a trick at that time."

I shake my head, "I don't understand what you're saying. Jasper's immortal. He can't die."

"Even vampires die."

"Not Jasper," I insist.

"Bella—

"Your words don't make sense. Can you leave? I'm really tired," I say. And before he could speak again, I pull the covers over my head and turn so that I am facing away from him. _Sorry, Edward. I know it's you. You've been here for me, but I'm so sorry._

He leaves, and again, the door slams shut.

Jasper dead. My mind can't quite comprehend both words in one sentence, yet it all makes sense. Images begin to flash back, of red splattered over. That wasn't Jasper's blood—he didn't bleed. He _couldn't. _Was it mines then? Perhaps. Maybe that was why Jasper had such worried eyes back then. He was hovering over me, holding my shoulders, telling me to open my eyes. I finally remember, his shaking fingers and trembling words. His ultimate descent to rage and anger, that too. And it was _my_ entirefault. But before the memories could fully return to me, everything went back to being black. The chains reappeared and wrapped around me.

Jasper visits soon enough. He sits contently on the corner of the mattress, as far away from me as possible, I realize. He is close enough, but yet, too far away. It's very hard to explain, but if I had to, I would say that these measurements were fully based on my feelings. But now I know everything's false. That's the only difference in this world, I guess.

"Jasper?" I sit up, leaning against the colorless pillows.

His eyes, like always, are looking at my direction. Jasper looks at me, his eyes no longer shining like usual.

"Hold out your hand," I say.

He hesitates and speaks, "Why?"

"You said I have to remember myself."

"…Will that really help you?" He sounds sad, and when I speak again, I realize that my voice sounds exactly like his.

"…Yeah."

And just as instructed, Jasper holds out his hand towards me. His palm is exposed. I slide off the sheets, walking towards him. My feet stumble, the floor being very cold. Every step feels like the end, but I continue my little walk. _Because it's worthwhile._ In the end, I am standing by his side, like I once did so long ago. I imagine my still heart beating rapidly, _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. _And as if under a slow spell, I lift my hand up. I become conscious of the quiver of my fingers. I swallow my breath and try my best to avoid Jasper's eyes. It isn't time—I don't know where my courage will escape to if I look at his eyes.

My fingers hover over to his hand, so that we are only inches apart. But that's about the only thing I can do. When my hand goes closer, my fingers pass through Jasper's hand, like air.

"I love you. Forever, Bella," he whispers. But only, I can't hear because I'm encased in my misery.

"Can't touch," I say, and it is only when the sob sounds in my ears that I know I am crying. No tears, you see.

Jasper doesn't say anything this time. I suspect it is because even he does not have an answer for such a situation. He brings his hand to my cheek, as if to catch my invisible tears. His fingers are ever so close, but never quite touching my face. Jasper curls his scarred fingers and brings his hand back, letting it drop back to his side. He is wearing a grey overcoat that covers his entire body, a brown shirt, a pair of black pants, and white scarf, the same clothes he had worn on the day he ceased to exist.

"I'm sorry, Bella."

I don't bother responding.

Because he's not there.


End file.
